Yin and Yang
by KatZen
Summary: Jeff observes as the cosmos in his household is thrown out of sync by a variety of influences. Rated T for safety.
1. Yin and Yang

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money or personal profit is made from this. **

**AN: Random insanity written during a brief stint in hospital (grandfather clock incident) which scared most of my movie Scott-muse into oblivion. I'm going to have to wait and see if the rest of him finds his way back. **

**Oh, this is also set pre-Thunderbirds, when the boys are teens/kids, and it has no relation to any other story I've written. **

**Anyway, hope you enjoy.**

Yin and Yang

They're fighting.

Under normal circumstances, I would sigh exasperatedly and roll my eyes tiredly. I wouldn't be worried, because every family fights at times. I would normally add an 'again' after the aforementioned statement, but this time, it's the wrong set of brothers.

This is anything but normal.

My eyes travel to the clock on the kitchen wall as I sip a cup of coffee, my e-paper burning a hole through my laptop screen.

Four o' clock. The boys should be - would be – walking through the solid front door.

I'm right, and am rewarded with the thunder of feet charging to the kitchen. My youngest son comes to a standstill in the doorway, causing his brothers to collide into him. I'm amused by the bemused expression on Alan's face, which in turn, is mirrored on his brothers' faces.

"What are you doing here?" Alan can't help blurting out. He has much to learn in the art of subtlety.

"I decided to take the afternoon off," I reply calmly, carefully disguising my true intentions. "There should be a few days when you come home from school to a parent."

"Sweet!" Gordon, my eleven year old, cheers. He dumps his schoolbag on his chair and raids the fridge. "Man, am I famished! Coach made us swim the mini marathon today. No rests at all." His voice is slightly muffled due to the three chocolate biscuits he's crammed in his mouth. "I came second," he adds, not so modestly.

"That's great, son." I can't help but feel elated by his achievement. "Just remember to leave some snacks for your brothers, OK?"

Gordon's face clouds over and Alan pouts petulantly at my comment. Looking at each other, they answered simultaneously, "Virgil and Scott don't deserve the biscuits."

Aha! I know I've hit the head of the nail with a hammer, but probing the topic will come later. "Even so, they'll be hungry. Isn't that right, boys?"

They don't respond. They're too busy glaring pointedly at each other. I know it's my presence that's forcing them to remain quietly civil to each other. If I weren't here, they would probably be screaming insults at one another.

Scott and Virgil don't normally fight, but when they do… run and hide. Not even a lead bunker can save you now.

"How was your day at school?" I press on, regardless of the fact that they've just ignored me.

"It was fine until he showed up," Virgil spat out venomously in the way only a fifteen and a half year old can, jerking his head in Scott's direction.

"It was my turf first," Scott shot back instantly. Seventeen year old logic comes into play. "If you don't like it, you don't have to go. I'm not moving."

I plant my face in my hands. Looks like it's started. Oh brother.

_I think I preferred it when they weren't talking to each other._

"Never mind. Come and sit down for some biscuits." I grab the packet out of the fridge and present it in front of my four sons.

_Four? Where's John?_

"He's on the stairs, reading." Scott reads my mind and moves to sit in John's chair. It's a deliberate move, a way of showing his displeasure, a way of shunning Virgil. Normally, Scott would sit next to Virgil, but, like I've said before, this is anything but normal.

"John," I holler into the hallway, "snack time! Get the chocolate before it goes!"

I hear him zip his book back into his bag and hurry into the kitchen. I know it's just for the chocolate, and I have to grin inwardly at that.

John eyes the table warily, and with trepidation, he squeezes himself into the seat between his brothers. I know it's out of necessity, as opposed to choice.

Finally, I take my seat at the head of the table. My eyes rake over them, really drinking them in for the first time in months. They all remind me of Lucy, in their own unique way.

Alan is the youngest of the Tracy clan. Just like Lucy had been the baby of her family.

Gordon has her eyes. I'm not talking about the colour or the shape. I'm talking about the thoughts and feelings behind them. One can look into his eyes and read him like an open book.

Virgil has her looks and her musical talent. He is the one who resembles her the most.

John inherited her love of books. I can definitely say he did not get that from me.

Scott has her common sense. Lucy always knew how to pick her battles. I know for a fact Scott does the same thing.

Which means that whatever is brewing between him and Virgil must be Everest sized.

_Luc, if you're up there, and not too busy, please give me the strength to get through this. That's all I need._

But I digress. Remembering her isn't going to solve the problem at hand.

"John, could you please ask Scott to pass the snack plate?"

Virgil's words jar me back into reality. I wonder why he can't remain civil enough to ask Scott the question. John shares my thoughts.

"Because, I'm not talking to the Spotlight Stealer."

_Name calling insults. Is it just me, or are my boys regressing to five year olds now?_

John sighs. "Scott, Virgil wants the cookie plate."

"Well, John, you can just tell Drama Queen over there that I'm still using it."

_Drama Queen? That's a new one. So was Spotlight Stealer._

"John, tell Thingy that if he doesn't pass the plate down now, I'm going to punch his lights out. God knows I've got enough anger to do that."

John sighs again and relays the message.

Scott scoffs, clearly unperturbed by that threat. "John, tell what's-his-face I'd like to see him try."

"You tell him!" John snaps, unwilling to take part in this anymore. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not your personal messenger! That goes for you too, Virgil!"

It's an emotional outburst for John. It has something to do with the cosmos in the house. Everything has a set balance in this house. Alan and Gordon are the pranksters. John is the quiet one, with his head in the clouds or buried in a book. Scott and Virgil are the hyphenated. The best way to describe them is the twins who were born a few years apart. They are Yin and Yang; complementary opposites encased in a whole entity.

If one of those gets thrown out of synch, the whole household turns into an emotional catastrophe.

I don't like it when that happens. I don't like thinking about it either. I don't deal well with strong surges of emotion. Luckily for me, I have Scott. He tends to restore order when the unthinkable happens. But this time… When he's part of the problem, I can't expect him to pick up the pieces.

"But John," Virgil protests, eyes glinting with a spark of malice. It's out of place in Virgil; it's unnerving. He's getting ready to deliver the ace. I can tell from the way his lips curl slightly. "Why would I want to talk to a bad influence? Why would I stoop so low as to talk to a druggie who got a girl pregnant?"

It is game, set and match to Virgil. A few nanoseconds later, my mind registers some of Virgil's words.

_Druggie? _

_Girl? _

_Pregnant?! _

What happens next is inevitable. Almost in slow motion, Scott throws himself at Virgil, just as John squeals in terror and slides under the table. Virgil is tackled to the floor, and pinned down by his one hundred and fifty four pound brother. Alan, Gordon and I stare in horror, shocked to the core that Scott could do something like that.

_I've never realised how out of the loop I am when it comes down to my boys._

Something inside of me snaps and I spring into action after hearing Virg's ragged breath.

"You take that back!" Scott yells. "You take it back because you know the former isn't true!"

_That's an improvement. Wait... just the former?_

I have more bones to pick with Scott, which makes me feel like a vulture picking away at a skeleton. And I will. Later. Right now, I have to stop my eldest from committing fratricide. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I pry Scott away from Virgil's neck and shove him aside.

"Scott Tracy! That kind of behaviour is not accepted, nor is it tolerated in this household!" I roar, terrifying my younger sons. I'm staring him straight in the eye, which is a remarkable feat, considering he towers over me. "Now go to your room!"

He stays rooted to the spot, testing my patience.

"Go to your room now!" I place one hand on my hip, and point the other hand at the stairs.

Scott knows when to call it quits, and this is one of those times. He hurricanes away, barging into Virgil on purpose as he goes.

_Yep, definite regression to childhood there. _

"You too," I say softly to Alan and Gordon. "Make a start on your homework."

"But Dad," Gordon whines. "I wanna know what's goin' on!"

"But nothing, Gordon. Go."

I watch Gordon and Alan retreat into the living room. So much for doing their homework. John crawls out from under the table, grabs the plate of biscuits – or what remains of them – and scoots out of the room.

I turn my attention back to Virgil. "Son, are you OK?"

"Yeah," he gasps, massaging his throat. "Yeah, the feeling should return in a few moments."

"Do you need a drink?"

He nods gratefully, and I pour him a glass of water.

"Thanks."

"So," I begin, my tone light and airy. "What was that about?"

"Just Scott… pulling a typical Scott."

I raise my eyebrows. Virgil clearly thinks he's done nothing wrong. "You provoked Scott, Virg. Why?"

Virgil chews on his lip. I can tell he doesn't want to drag me into this.

It's too late.

I am already involved.

"Because he deserved it?"

"And why did he deserve it?" I can see Virgil isn't going to make this easy for me. I'm going to have to work my way to the root of the problem.

"Just… because."

"Because is not an answer," I admonish, staring him straight in his eyes.

"Because he's stealing my thunder," Virgil finally blurts out. I raise my eyebrow again, and Virgil knows it's time to come clean. "They've started a contemporary music club at school. It's a really serious one. They're entering competitions and everything."

I nod. I understand how important music is to Virgil.

"So I scrawl my name down on the sign up sheet." The floodgates are open and there's no stopping Virgil. "I stare at it for a moment longer, and I realise that no other Tracy has signed up. I'm elated. This is an opportunity for me to be recognized as someone other than Scott and John's little brother.

"When I turned up for the first rehearsal, I expected to be the only Tracy there, and I'm determined to make a name for myself. There was a swarm of people already there, and they've clustered around one person."

_Three guesses who, and the first two don't count. _

"Yeah," Virgil agrees bitterly. "Scott."

_Maybe Scott's joined so that you and he could share a special activity. Scott does that with everyone else. He reads with John, swims with Gordon and runs with Alan. _

"He's not doing it for a bonding activity." Virgil reads my mind and spits out his answer like its poison. "I asked him and he said it wasn't for that. When I asked him why he joined, he said he couldn't tell me." Virgil snorts in disbelief. "More like he wouldn't tell me!"

"I'm sure he has his reasons."

"But why?" Virgil deflates as he says that. "Why, Dad? That's all I want to know. Is he worried about me? Or is he jealous that this time, I would have been the first and only Tracy to join the music club? Just... why does he have to steal my thunder? For once in my life, I'd like to be in the spotlight." He pauses. "Dad, I'm sorry."

"I know you are. But it's not me you need to apologise to." I wrap my fifteen and a half year old up in an embrace he so clearly needs. "I don't know why Scott done what he's done, but I intend to find out."

Releasing him, I march up the stairs. The conversation with Scott is bound to be more trying.

I reach his closed door and take a deep breath. I feel like I'm up the creek without a paddle now.

_Thank God Mother wasn't here for this showdown. Although, she would have sorted it out before it got this bad. _

Without knocking, I power my way into his room. He doesn't hear me, which is unsurprising, considering he's immersed himself in maths.

"Scott, we need to talk."

"Fire away." He doesn't miss a beat. He answers, but his attention is on his work.

"Put the pen down, and look at me."

It irks me when he doesn't do as I ask.

"Scott," I warn, "don't make me repeat myself."

Almost regretfully, he places his pen down on his desk and slams his books shut. I perch on the edge of his unmade bed and tap the space beside me. He sits next to me but he places himself away from me at the same time. It's lack of contact. A barrier made of air. I'm sure it means he wants independence. I know I was like that when I was his age.

"You know you were wrong in what you did." It's a statement. I'm leaving no room for argument.

Scott shrugs.

"It doesn't matter how much Virgil provokes you, you do not resort to physical violence." I wait, letting that sink in. "Do you understand?"

Silence reigns.

"It's a yes or no question."

There more silence, before a quiet 'yes Dad,' escapes his lips.

"I know he was also in the wrong," I point out, eager to show Scott I'm not just pinning the blame on him. "But I cannot, and I will not tolerate physical fighting in this household. You are all old enough to know better." I lower my tone before starting up again. "Why, Scotty? He's much smaller than you. You could have hurt him." I don't expect a reply. "Once we're done here, I want you to go downstairs and apologise to Virgil. Can you do that?"

Scott nods reluctantly.

"Good man."

He moves away, but I call him back. He groans in despair, but I haven't finished with him yet. He knows that I know that he knows what I want to talk to him about.

It's not going to be pleasant.

"Before you even start, Dad, I don't do drugs."

It's what I wanted to hear, but I'm still not reassured.

If you don't do drugs," I challenge, "why is your brother under the impression that you do?"

Scott shrugs again. It's all he does nowadays.

"Is it a rumour going round school?" I press. If it's a rumour, and just a rumour, I know it will die out with time. But rumours are based on fact.

"Can I go now?" Scott asks. He doesn't wait for an answer, and all but bolts to his door.

"No. Get back here."

He retreats, but doesn't sit down. He has the upper hand as he stares down at me. I refuse to be intimidated by that.

"Scott," I'm close to pleading. Only my eldest son can reduce me to that. "Please. Talk to me. I can't do much if you don't communicate with me."

It doesn't open him up, but it does make me feel better.

"Are you in trouble?" I hold eye contact, unblinking.

He turns his head away. He breaks the stare.

It scares me.

And I don't like that.

Feeling scared is probably the strongest emotion you can feel. Apart from love. Scared... I don't like that emotion. I don't like fear either. They aren't measurable quantities. They just are.

But I digress.

"You are, aren't you." Again, a statement. This time, he agrees.

_That's it. He's not getting out of here until I hear the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. _

Scott swallows painfully. "Yes. Now can I go, please?"

I shake my head. "Tell me what happened."

He sits down beside me, places his chin in his hand, and begins to mumble. I pull his hand away, and for the first time in a long time, I listen to what he has to say.

_What?! How could I not know about this! _

I'm stunned. I've heard of these things happening at school, but I never thought my son would be victim to that.

"Let me get this straight," I stammer out. I've learnt that saying things out loud makes it easier to absorb. "They did a random locker search for stolen goods, damaged property and prohibited items. When they came to your locker, they found a packet of drugs which had been planted there. You don't know who planted it, but you are positive that it isn't yours. You were then given a choice…"

_Is choice the right word to use here? It doesn't seem like much of a choice. Never mind, Tracy. Push on regardless. School has changed a lot since I went through it. In my day, no school would ever offer a deal like that. _

"Of being suspended indefinitely for possession of a prohibited item, or having a minor misdemeanour on your permanent record if you joined the music club. Am I up to speed so far?"

"Yeah. Except you missed out the part where I said I would pee in a cup just to prove that I don't do drugs and to get out of the punishment. It didn't work."

My eye twitches. Trust Scott to be a stickler for all the sordid details. One thing still puzzles me. Why did they offer him the deal? Isn't it against some sort of rule to do that? A breach of ethical boundaries?

"They offered me the deal because they know I don't do drugs, but I still have to be punished for it. It also keeps me in there, which helps to boost their overall average. It's just as good for them as it is for me. Anyway, everyone at school knows music and me are not mutually compatible, so this seemed like a good punishment. I took the deal because it was the lesser of two evils."

I purse my lips. I'm not happy. I wonder why he didn't come to me when this happened.

"You were busy, Dad." He can't help but add the next bit. "You're always busy."

That stings. I know it's true, but that doesn't stop it from hurting.

"Son," I begin awkwardly, "I know I've been busy recently, but I'm never too busy for any of my sons. You know that, don't you? I will always have time for you."

Scott nods, his dark brown curls falling into his eyes. Impatiently, he pushes them out. "Great. Well, I'm gonna go downstairs now-"

"Hang on," I beckon him back and he sits obediently on his swivel chiar. "Just one more thing. Word has it that you got a girl pregnant."

Scott squirms in discomfort. I'll bet being on the receiving end of 'The Talk' is even more embarrassing as he gets older. God knows the first time I told him all of that was bad enough.

"How did it happen?"

The minute I pose that question, I know I've said the wrong thing. I watch Scott pivot around, with his trademark slow smile stretched across his face.

"Dad," he replies in mock seriousness, "you have five sons and you're telling me you don't know how it happened?"

I'm gob smacked. That is something I would have expected from Gordon, not from Scott.

"Again, is that true?"

Scott tilts his head to the side. "For the purpose of this discussion, yes."

_Not the answer I wanted to hear, Scotty boy._

"And how do you feel about it?" I'm desperately trying to keep my rising anger in check.

The shrug is back. "I dunno. Haven't really thought about it, I guess."

The anger rises even more. How can he be so flippant about this? Doesn't he realise he's partly responsible for another human life?

"Well you'd better start thinking about it, boy." The anger is flowing like lava would flow from a volcano.

I know I said I don't like dealing with strong surges of emotion, but I think I can make an exception in this case.

"How are you going to support them? Are you dropping out of school?"

_Careful, Tracy, don't want to go giving him ideas._

"No!" Scott appears scandalised at that thought. "I'm not dropping out of school! I'll figure something out. We both will."

"Scott, you are not ready to be a dad! You're seventeen, for crying out loud! You can't even marry her and raise the child together!" It's an old fashioned notion, but it's the one my mother hammered into me as I was growing up.

_Old habits die hard, I guess._

"Pot calling the kettle black, Dad." Scott stares evenly at me, intense blue eyes unwavering. I can feel the unspoken word bouncing between us.

_Hypocrite._

"Looks like the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree." Scott stands up for the final time, and walks away. He has effectively closed the conversation.

Once my erratic heartbeat returns back to its normal state, I follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen. By the time I get there, they're in a macho teenage boy hug. Scott tries to ruffle Virgil's hair and Virgil evades the hand.

A bitter-sweet feeling washes over me as I watch the scene play out. I can't identify what emotion it is. Maybe it's because there is no name for it. I'm relieved they've made up, but at the same time, I feel isolated. Looking at them, I realise just how far my boys have drifted away from me.

_Not any more._

Yin and Yang have been restored. Now, with all my boys, it's time to restore Father and Son.


	2. The Secret Keeper

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me, even though I wish they did. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this tale. Any original characters, however, do belong to me. **

**AN: I wrote Yin and Yang about a year, maybe even two years ago, and I hoped that would be the last I thought of it, but one of the reviews stuck out in my mind and refused to disappear. It made me realise that as a reader, you had only seen the story from Jeff's perspective. So, I typed the entire story up… and I somehow managed to lose the document for about a year. A virus scan managed to find it, and the rest is history. **

**This is the rest of the tale from another point of view, and is a sort of sequel/prequel to Yin and Yang. Also, some of the subject matter is delicate and may upset/offend some readers. I've tried to keep it as ambiguous and low-key as possible, but if it does offend/upset you, I apologise. Anyway, enough of me waffling on...**

The Secret Keeper

It's been a long journey to this point. A long, tiresome, journey. Looking back on it, however, you realise you wouldn't change a thing. You glance at the red-haired girl sitting beside you, the one you're about to spill all to, in trepidation. She says she knows the story, but you wonder if she'll ever truly understand.

For you, your part of the tale is ending. With it comes a sense of relief, and you wish to God that you could start from the end. But, like any novel, in order to understand the end, you need to revisit the beginning.

You swing your uninjured leg against the brick wall you're perched upon and grab your girlfriend's hand, open your mouth and let the words waterfall out, leading you where they may.

* * *

There's something different about her. She's quiet and subdued; a mere shadow of the person she used to be. You worry about the sudden personality transplant. Surely a person can't change so drastically over a few weeks?

You observe her throughout the day, mentally noting how she slides along the walls of the hallway, almost as though she wishes she were invisible. To her, it seems that the uneven pattern on the linoleum floor is the most interesting thing invented since cheese toasties.

Your stomach grumbles at the thought of food and the bell rings in synchronisation, indicating the beginning of lunch. Opening your locker door with your identification card, you internally salivate at the thought of the slice of apple pie your grandma has packed for you.

_Who wouldn't salivate at that?_

You pull out the slightly squashed slice of pie, slam your locker door shut in only the way a teenager can, and stroll towards the cafeteria, bag slung carelessly across one shoulder.

She sits by herself, limp hair hanging over her eyes like a curtain shielding her from the rest of the world.

It doesn't work on you. It never has, you recall, especially when Gordon and Alan were going through the pull-the-blanket-over-my-head-so-Scott-can't-see-me stage. You can see straight through the façade. Always can, always will.

You sink into the vacant chair next to her.

Something inside of you twinges as you finally see her close up. Her face is twisted in pain, worry or annoyance. Being a guy who isn't in touch with his emotions too much, you have no way of telling which one it is. Either way, she's upset. Even you can see that. For some unknown reason, that spurs you into doing something you have never done before.

"Want some?" you ask, tone artificially light as you offer her a fork and the pie. You have no idea why you are doing this, but the intention of sharing spreads a warm, fuzzy feeling through your body.

She declines, shakes her head and scoots away from you. You wonder what you have done to offend her.

_Maybe she doesn't like the smell of cinnamon?_

Yeah, that must be it. She doesn't like the smell of cinnamon and Grams always layers the pie with an inch thick layer of the spice.

Even so, you find yourself asking, "What's wrong?"

For the first time in weeks, she looks at you. She physically peers through the veil of hair and holds eye contact for more than two seconds.

She swallows, pushing past the lump that seems to have formed in her throat, and tries to speak, but no words come out. She looks like a goldfish drowning in air.

Finally, she stammers, "Not… not here."

You get the hint and finish your pie in companionable silence.

A few moments after you swallow your last mouthful, she grabs you on the shoulder. Her fingernails dig into your flesh, like talons digging into bark. Again, you wonder what you've done to get that reaction from her.

You follow her out of the cafeteria and into a secluded spot. It takes a while, but you manage to get her to warm up to you. What she tells you chills you right to the core. You've heard of things like this happening, but you never thought it would happen to one of your friends. You have a burning urge to find out who did this to her and deck him one, but she won't tell you. You eventually coax it out of her.

She asks for your help. She's putting you on the spot. She may even be testing you, seeing whether she really is or isn't your friend. You feel that you need to play your cards right in this situation.

What do you say?

Yes. Of course you'll help her out. You're her friend. That's what friends do, right?

She smiles at you, truly and utterly grateful. Now you come to think of it, it's the first real smile you've seen from her in weeks. You know you've made the right choice here.

The rest of the day rolls by quickly. You spend your free periods in the library, trying to finish of your homework because you know you won't have a chance to do it tonight. You also try to seek out John or Virgil. Either brother will do, but you'd prefer to deal with John. Virgil and you are going through… through…

_A trying patch. We'll sort it out, one day._

You bump into neither, until the final bell rings, indicating the end of the school day. Virgil casually saunters up to you at your locker, backpack slung over his left shoulder, hair unnecessarily windswept, polo-shirt collar popped up. You recognize the signs and heroically try to choke back your laughter – he's trying to impress a girl. Or he already has. You aren't too sure.

"Whaddaya think? Cool, or sub-zero?"

Clearly Virgil's in one of those quirky moods. It has its price.

"Never mind," he continues, without waiting for an answer. "We need to get home ASAP. Got a date I gotta get ready for. Move it, move it, move it! And, I'll need your car."

You can't help it. The bubble of laughter that built up inside you bursts and you collapse into hysterics. "Nice one," you rejoin, as soon as you can draw breath. "What planet are you living on? What makes you think I'll let you drive a car? _My_ car, of all cars that can be driven? Nah, get real."

"Scott, I'm being serious. I don't need a piece of paper to tell me I can drive. It's hit the gas and steer; how hard can it be?"

You sober up. "I'm serious too. You don't have a license and you don't know how to drive a shift stick. There is no way in hell I'll let you behind the wheel without those two criteria's being filled. Besides, having a car isn't the only way to dig girls. Granted, they do make the job easier, but they're not the deal breaker." You pointedly ignore the impetuous pout Virgil sends your way. "By the way, you and John have got to pick Alan and Gordon up from middle school and then take the bus home."

Virgil is unhappy. He crosses his arms over his chest and whines out the most irritating word known to mankind. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

As the eldest Tracy, you know this answer will be sufficient.

_Note to self – being the eldest has particular perks._

Virgil glowers at you, curses and then quietly mutters, "You suck."

_Scratch what I just said._

You shrug. You don't have time to deal with this anymore. "Well, get used to me being a sucky brother. I can guarantee you'll feel that way more often now."

Virgil flounces off in a huff.

You shake your head at his retreating back. You are pretty sure you weren't as difficult as he is when you were fifteen. At least, you hope you weren't. Actually, you know you weren't – you had too much responsibility to shoulder. Slamming your locker door closed, you fiddle with your keys as you head out to your Dodge Charger.

"Ready to go?" you ask, slinging an arm over your friend's shoulder.

She draws in a deep, shaky breath. "I guess." There's a pause. "Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything."

You nod, acknowledging her and get into your car and drive away.

* * *

It's been ages, and you still can't quite believe that you're sitting in your car outside a Planned Parenthood Centre, several miles away from home. You never thought you'd come here when you'd be an adult, let alone at seventeen.

_Everything,_ you realise,_ has changed after today's lunchtime revelation._

And that realisation scares you slightly.

It's taking too long. You itch to jump out of the car and find out why, but you manage to restrain yourself. You drift off into your own little world, humming absentmindedly to the radio.

The car door opens and closes with a dull thud. You can feel the tension radiating from her.

"You did what you had to do," you say gently. "You did what you had to do."

She shakes her head and sobs into her hands. "I couldn't. I couldn't go through with it. Did I make the right choice?"

You consider your words carefully. One slip of the tongue and everything will go south.

"You made the choice that felt right to you," you reply eventually. "It's getting late. I think we should head back now."

On that note, you check for any hidden patrol cars, perform an illegal u-turn and drive away.

* * *

A month, or two, has passed since that day and it's ice-hockey season again. You're exhilarated at the prospect of a new season, but something makes you feel uneasy. You mentally scroll through the names of your team mates. One name causes alarm bells to peal in your head.

Matthew Johnston.

You've never really liked the guy, but knowing what you know, your dislike increases tenfold. It shows on the ice. Your coach isn't happy about it and she calls both of you up on it. At the time, both of you pretend that nothing was wrong.

Later, after your match, he accosts you.

"What the hell's your problem?" he roars, shoving you into a wall. "I'm a team member, just like you. You treat me with respect!"

You shoot him a look. This person doesn't deserve any respect. "I know what you did to her."

He pulls a face. "How is this any of your business?"

You ignore him. You've come to realise you're good at ignoring people. "I know you took advantage of her. I know. I may not be able to get her to report you to the police, but I can guarantee that you won't be able to do that to anyone else."

Johnston takes a menacing step forward. He has six inches on your height, and is twice your weight, but you stand your ground.

"You interfere," he threatens, jabbing a stubby finger into your chest, "and you will live to regret it."

You roll those cerulean blue eyes of yours in a bored manner. "I'm so scared," you rejoin sarcastically. "Look, I'm shaking in my skates."

Johnston glares hard at you and skulks away. Watching his retreating back, an ominous feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. You can't help but feel like you've made a mistake in provoking a potentially venomous snake.

News of the altercation manages to leak its way into mainstream gossip at school. Like a game of 'Down-the-Line', the message becomes twisted and garbled. You hear snippets of it, but none of it makes sense as you know how things really went down. You know for a fact Matt Johnston didn't beat you to a bloody pulp. You know you didn't break Johnston's nose. You know the truth.

One little piece of information piques your interest. It's the allegations of impending fatherhood. Apparently, you're the father.

_Time for some damage control._

You hunt for her, she hunts for you. You both need to think about your next step. You both need some sort of contingency plan. You close the door behind you after locating her and dragging her into a vacant classroom.

"What've you said?"

"Nothing. You?"

"Nothing. What're we going to do? I didn't want anyone finding out about this."

"I know," you sigh wearily, coming to a decision in your mind. It's not one that makes you happy. "If someone asks you if it's true, just say yes. It's probably better that way."

"But what about your girlfriend? I don't think she'll be too happy if I say it's true."

"I don't think she'll be too happy if I tell her it's a lie," you laugh humourlessly. "I'll deal with it."

"I'm sorry, Scott. I never meant for this to happen. I didn't think things would end up this way. If you don't want to help me anymore, I'll understand."

You didn't think events would unravel and unfold as they have. And in a way, you're sorry too. Not for what you are doing, but for everything you know you'll miss out on.

True to your word, you deal with the loose ends in your life. It's a quick break-up with your girlfriend, and probably the most painful one you've experienced to date, because you really like the girl. You feel a dead weight form in your chest as you watch her walk away from you, tears forming in her eyes, red hair shielding her face from you. In that moment, you wish you could call her back to you, wrap her in a hug and tell her everything, from the lie you're following through with right down to the fact that you still want to be with her.

But you can't.

_Trapped between a rock and a hard place._

For the next few days, you act like a bear with a sore head, struggling to accept that for the next seven months, you will lose your conscience. You are, and will be, forced to live a lie.

* * *

To date, it's been four months since that particular lunchtime discussion. The rumours and accusations have reduced from a verbal onslaught to the occasional dribble. School has been somewhat trying. There are those who disapprove of you supposedly getting a girl pregnant, and they avoid you like you have the plague. There are those that stare at you and think, _better him than me, the womanizing bastard._ They want nothing to do with you. And, lastly, there are the people who treat you just the same, regardless of what you appear to have done.

In these four months, you've made many enemies.

In these four months, you've learnt who your true friends are.

Your family life has also taken a slide downhill. Your tenuous relationship with Virgil has been pushed to the brink of disaster and John clearly disapproves of what he believes to be your actions. You can't even tell your family the truth and that kills you on the inside.

You shake your head, trying not to dwell on the various problems in your life. You've got an ice-hockey match. Your head needs to be in The Zone.

Before you can head out onto the ice, your coach commands a locker check. You grumble about the slight delay under your breath, but you comply. You have nothing to hide.

Or so you think.

It's a thorough check, and towards the back of your locker, your coach pulls out a small white package. You've never seen it before, but your protests are ignored. But why should anyone believe you, given your past?

You've been instantly booted off the team and you are required to visit the principle's office. As you leave the locker room, you swear you can see a smirk emanating from Matthew Johnston.

He said he'd get you, and he got you good.

_The bastard. If I could just get my hands on him…_

The principle does not take a light view on the allegations laid against you.

"But I've never seen it before!" you reiterate, blood boiling with anger. "I don't do drugs. I'll pee in a cup and you can test it! I do not do drugs!"

The principle stares at you. And he stares some more. It unnerves you.

Your gut clenches in anticipation.

He opens his mouth, and begins to talk. You listen, and can't believe what he's saying.

You nod, accepting his decision, and are then promptly dismissed.

* * *

It's inevitable, but news eventually reaches the ears of your esteemed father. You're in for it now. It's no surprise to you when he's waiting at the dining room table once you come home.

_Great. Just what I need. A father-son interrogation._

It's been one of those days. Virgil and you have gotten into another fight. This time, it's over something that is so ridiculous, you don't even want to think about it.

It comes to a head at snack-time, right in front of your father. With a few choice words, Virgil manages to crawl under your skin and irritate you like a poison-ivy rash. You charge at him, emotions, mainly anger and frustration, rushing unbridled through your veins. You can't believe you lost control like that.

Your father banishes you to your room and you eventually comply. It's safer for everyone that way. There's only one thing that can calm you down now. You crack open the books and start on your homework, just forgetting your troubles for a while. Turning on your mini-disc player, you stuff the earphones in your ears and immerse yourself in maths. Maths, along with Chemistry and Physics, is your favourite subject. Unlike humans, there is only one right answer in the end.

Unknown to you, your father steps over your threshold, even though you've closed the door, violating your privacy. He announces his presence with the most clichéd line you've been unfortunate enough to hear.

"Scott, we need to talk."

"Fire away." You refuse to look at him, refuse to tear yourself away from your work. Working is the easiest way to suppress your emotions. You're becoming rather good at it. After all, you learnt from the master, who is, incidentally, standing in your door.

"Put the pen down and look at me."

Felling rebellious, and knowing it would irritate the hell out of your dad, you ignore him.

"Scott-"

You know you've pushed his buttons because he's using his warning tone. This conversation is not going to work in your favour now.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

You regret your decision, but you close your books. He sits on the edge of your unmade bed and taps the space next to him. You place yourself near him, but far away as well.

"You know you were wrong in what you did."

You shrug.

_Doesn't matter now, does it? What's done is done. _

"It doesn't matter how much Virgil provokes you, you do not resort to physical violence." A pause. "Do you understand?"

You remain silent. You're well within your rights to do that.

"It's a yes or no question."

He waits, clearly expecting a response from you. You deliberate, wondering if you should talk about what's really been going on or if you should just fire off the answer he wants to hear. You choose the less emotionally draining one.

"Yes, Dad."

"I know he was also in the wrong. But I cannot, and I will not tolerate physical fighting in this household. You are all old enough to know better."

He lowers his tone before starting up again. "Why, Scotty? He's much smaller than you. You could have hurt him."

He won't get a reply. You already established that. "Once we're done here, I want you to go downstairs and apologise to Virgil. Can you do that?"

Apologise? Yes.

Explain your behaviour over the past couple of months? Not so much.

Deep down, you know Virgil will expect an apology and an explanation towards your hostile manner.

Your father takes your silence as assent and approves. "Good man."

You spring off the bed, glad you've been given a reason to leave. Your hopes are dashed as he calls you back. You know what he's going to move onto. You are determined to stop him in his tracks.

"Before you even start, Dad, I don't do drugs."

And it's true. You left that part of your life behind a long time ago. Even so, you recognise the fact that your father needs some reassurances.

"If you don't do drugs," he challenges, "why is your brother under the impression that you do?"

You shrug. You wonder if Virgil even knows what someone looks like when they're stoned. You made sure he didn't, back in the day. You would always come home a few hours after the drugs had cleared your system.

Never before.

"Is it a rumour going around school?"

Your insides squirm. You're swimming way too close to the truth for comfort. You evade his question with a question of your own.

"Can I go now?"

"No. Get back here."

_Damn!_

"Scott," his voice has morphed from stern to pleading. It gives you a perverse feeling of pleasure knowing you are one of the select few who can reduce him to that. Also, the fact that you're standing, looking down on him, adds to the feeling. But he still has the upper hand.

"Are you in trouble?"

_More than you could ever imagine._

"You are," he continues, "aren't you?"

You swallow painfully. You don't think you can hold up this ridiculous charade anymore. It's time, you decide, to come clean.

_Tell the truth and be damned. Don't tell the truth and be damned. _

"Yes," you agree. "Now can I go, please?"

Your father shakes his head. "Tell me what happened."

You loathe doing this, but you know you have to. You raise your hand to your mouth and begin to mumble. Your father rips your hand away from your mouth, and for the first time in a long time, he makes the time to listen to your problems, absorbing them like a sponge would absorb a water spillage.

Blinking rapidly, he repeats everything you've just said. Typically, he misses your point about taking a drug test by peeing in a cup.

Reading his expressions, you can tell your father disapproves of your choices. Although, in retrospect, it wasn't so much a choice as it was a bribe in order for your silence. Either way, you copped a light punishment, so you won't complain.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hurt is evident in your father's voice.

_Good question._

You have an, in your mind, equally good answer. "You were busy. You're always busy."

The words rock him to the core and he takes that into consideration.

You don't like where this conversation is headed. It's turning into an Oprah-style touchy-feely emotional segment.

_Oh, man, we're not gonna have to hug, are we? Do not want!_

You move away but he beckons you back. You contemplate disobeying him, but something warns you not to.

"Word has it you got a girl pregnant."

_Oh boy. This is going to be embarrassing. It was bad enough when I was twelve, watching you stutter and stumble your way through the most awkward two hours of my life. _

"How did it happen?"

You have to suppress your snort of laughter. In your head, you can hear a Classic-Gordon-Tracy response. Without censoring your mouth, you let the answer tumble out.

"Dad, you have five sons, and you're telling me _you don't know how it happened?"_

You leave him suitably gob smacked.

"Again," he regains his composure, "is this true?"

You tilt your head to the side. "For the purpose of this discussion, yes."

_For the purpose of this discussion._

"And how do you feel about this?"

For the millionth time, you shrug. "I dunno. Haven't really thought about it, I guess."

It is the wrong thing to say. Apparently, Jeff Tracy does not want to hear those words. He explodes like a pyroclastic volcano.

"Well, you'd better start thinking about it, boy! How are you going to support them? Are you dropping out of school?"

"No!" You are scandalised at the thought. You have plans for your life and nothing, absolutely nothing will get in the way of you fulfilling them. "I'll figure something out! We both will."

"Scott, you are not ready to be a dad! You're seventeen, for crying out loud! You can't even marry her and raise the child together!"

_Like you and Mom were when I was born, right?_

Your heartbeat stills, just for a moment. Even though you haven't gotten a girl pregnant, even though you are not approaching fatherhood, none of it matters. For one of the most liberated men in the nation, your father sure has some old fashioned notions. In that moment, you see him in a different light. You don't view him as a philanthropist, or even your fair but firm father.

You view him as a hypocrite.

"Pot calling the kettle," you reply with dry sarcasm, quirking your eyebrow. You leave a stunned Jeff Tracy in your room as you scour the house, looking for Virgil.

* * *

Like a typical teenager, you stay up late into the night. After glancing at the clock mounted on the wall, you decide to catch at least three hours worth of sleep. Grinning inwardly, you're kind of glad your father converted his old office into a room for you. John would have flayed you alive if you had kept him up until two in the morning.

Reaching over for the light switch, you place your finger over the button, ready to flick it. For some reason unknown to you, you decide to check your phone. There are no messages or missed calls.

_No emergencies tonight. _

With a sigh, you roll over onto your back and close your eyes, basking in the tranquillity of silence. It takes a few moments, but your brain registers that the tranquil silence is not so silent after all. There is a soft, but constant, thud against your window. With a groan, you stumble out of bed and open the window, ducking to miss the stone that is thrown towards your head.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, feeling kind of stupid. "It's two in the morning."

"Dad came home from his series of business meetings today. He found out and kicked me out. Scott," she stifles a sob, "Scott, I don't know where else to go."

Well, you promised you'd help her four months ago. You haven't been raised to turn your back on a promise.

You tell her to stay where she is, whisk across the kitchen to the back door and invite her in. Quickly, you lead her back to your bedroom.

"I'll take the floor," you mutter against her protests as you set things up.

"Scott, get up here," she orders, crawling under the covers. "I've already been taken advantage of, and the result of that has gotten us into this predicament. I think sharing a bed with me is the least of our problems."

She has a valid point, and truthfully, you do want to sleep under a thick coverlid instead of a bundle of blankets. It's coming towards winter and the nights are cold. You crawl between the crisp sheets, roll onto your side and face the wall. There is a niggling thought at the back of your mind, but you can't for the life of you remember what it is. With a soft sigh, you close your eyes, telling yourself that if it was really that important, you would remember it shortly.

* * *

A shrill, high pitched scream rouses you from your sleeping state. Blinking, disoriented, you open you eyes, twist in horror and collapse out of bed.

_Oh shit. The proverbial has hit the fan._

_This_ is what you were desperately trying to remember last night. Your sweet, dear, beloved grandma had decided earlier on in the week that she would come to your place for a whole day on Friday to try and take the pressure of family life off your shoulders.

Surveying the scene from your somewhat messy bedroom floor, you realise what the scenario looks like to your grandmother. You glance at your temporary roommate, who is being heavily scrutinised by your grandmother. The silence is nothing if not a little awkward.

"This isn't what it looks like," you begin, rising from the floor, wincing. It feels like you've fractured both your kneecaps.

"Well, explain, Scott Carpenter Tracy, what do you think it looks like?" your grandmother retorts, tone carefully controlled, yet icy at the same time. You're really in it now.

"Like we… she and I…" you trail off, realising you are not doing yourself any favours. "Nothing happened!" you establish firmly, feeling flustered and frustrated. Only your grandmother can send you into such a tailspin with a few short words.

She glowers at you, shoots a look that clearly conveys _I will deal with you in three minutes downstairs,_ and flurries away.

"I should probably go," your roommate murmurs, twisting the sheets in her hands. You nod in agreement and traipse downstairs.

For a diminutive woman, your grandmother sure knows how to pack a punch when she yells at you. After five minutes, you tune out, looking suitably chastised.

"Well, young man, do you have anything to say for yourself?"

You shake yourself out of the mental fog you are in.

"I simply cannot _believe_ you would pull something as disgraceful and disrespectful as this! I thought I raised you better!" Grandma shakes her head, tendrils of hair framing her face. "Your mother would have been so disappointed in you, Scott."

Your head dips and your chest tightens at the mention of your mother. It's been several years, but it still hurts when you think of her. You've never wanted her to be disappointed in you. That was not your intention. Something inside of you snaps, and you decide to set your grandmother straight. Unlike the interrogation with your father, you confess everything. There are no secrets. You reveal all to your grandmother. It is somewhat cathartic, finally sharing the burden of the reality of your life with another person.

When you look at her, you search her eyes. She has no disapproval in her eyes, but you can tell she's not exactly thrilled with what you've done.

"Please don't look at me like that, Grams," you sigh. "I was doing what I thought was right."

"I know you were," she agrees. "And I'm proud of you for doing what you thought was right. I'm disappointed that you felt you couldn't trust me enough to inform me of the circumstances."

"I'm sorry, Grams. Really, I am."

"I'm relieved to hear you are not making me a young great-grandmother as well," she says, a small smile playing across her lips.

"You and me both. I sure as hell ain't ready for that," you laugh, feeling as though a giant weight has been lifted from your shoulders. She smiles, delighted to hear you laugh for the first time in a long time and places breakfast – toast and strawberry jam – in your mouth.

"Off to school, Scotty. And you invite her back tonight for dinner, young man. She can stay with us, in the guest room, until she sorts things out with her parents."

"Fanks. For e'ryfing," you slur out, transferring the toast from your mouth to your hand while dashing out the back door for the school bus.

* * *

Another three months pass, with little to no event. She hasn't managed to reconcile with her parents, but you, thankfully, have managed to patch things up with Virgil. Sure, there are still the occasional outbursts, after all, you're both in the throes of adolescence, but they are never on the same scale that they used to be on.

You tap impatiently on the steering wheel as you drive John, Virgil and your houseguest back from the latest ice-hockey game. In the shotgun seat beside you, she fidgets and grimaces.

"Everything okay?" you ask, sparing a cursory glance in her direction.

Her nose wrinkles and she nods. You divert your attention back to the road. The light has just changed, and you're the first car off the rank at the intersection. You push your foot down, accelerating smoothly away over the intersection. Out of the corner of your eye, you register a car speeding towards your door. You register the movement a fraction of a second too late. You can't slow down fast enough to let the other car pass, and vice versa. You speed up, and the situation could turn worse. You swerve, but there's no point. You know a crash is imminent. Knowing that there is nothing left to do, you brace yourself for the impact.

* * *

It hurts like a bitch when you come around. You knew there would be pain, after all, it's rare for a person to walk away from two steel cars mangled together without injury, but you didn't anticipate this much pain. You feel blood track slowly down the side of your left leg. You can smell the crash too, but you can't hear or see much. There's too much smoke obscuring your vision, meaning there has to be a fire somewhere. Your ears still ring with the sound of squealing tyres and then the sound of the resulting crash. There's the distinct odour of smelted metal. Plastic melts into a gooey puddle on the tarmac. The tinge of alcohol permeates the air. The smell of singed flesh worries you. And the blood, have you mentioned the metallic smell of blood? You think you can just about taste it too.

There's a pain in your chest. Like a tight knot, it restricts your breathing. You draw in a shallow breath, gasping at the pain you feel.

"Where's John? Is he okay?" Fear fills you, and that fear is worse than the pain. You're the one responsible for your brothers. If anything happened to John, you know you'd never forgive yourself.

It's Virgil who alleviates your fears. "He's gone to get some help. They've both gone. It's just you and me here."

You groan as your head pounds with this new information. Your eyelids droop, and you have no intention of preventing that from happening. You're more than happy to slip back into La-La land.

The last thing you see are golden flames dancing outside the chassis of your car.

The last thing you smell is leaking gas.

* * *

If you thought waking up was a bitch last time, this time waking up is a bitch on heat. Everything hurts, right down to your pinky toe. Your eyelids slide open and you bite back your scream of agony as it feels like the skin is being stripped off your lids with a rusty nail. The only thing you see is white cross-hatched stitching. Briefly, you wonder if you've gone blind.

"Scott?"

The voice sounds deep and gravelly and just a few million decibels too loud for your ears.

_Ah, crap. Have I've died and gone to hell? Why else would doctors be here?_

You groan and attempt to burrow your head under the pillows, even though that sends wave after wave of pain firing through your neurones.

"It's okay," another voice – a female voice you recognise – says, squeezing your hand.

It's confirmation enough; you really have died and gone to hell. After all, why else would your ex-girlfriend – the one you severed ties with when the entire debacle began – be here with you?

"Fa," you struggle to enquire about your brothers, but it requires too much effort. It requires too much brain power to form the word family and let it roll off your tongue.

"Your family's okay," your ex-girlfriend reassures you. "Virgil's being treated for minor burns, and John's being treated for shock. He practically collapsed in my arms after screaming for help at the shop where I work. You were the one that got the worst of it, from what I saw."

"They were both in better shape than you," the gravelly voice agrees. "Now, Scott, I need you to pay attention for short while. Can you do that?"

_If it means you'll leave me to rot in peace, sure._

"Alright. Scott, you've sustained serious burns to over 20% of your body. We've applied some healing gel and covered them with gauzes to prevent any infection from making you sicker. With any luck, there should be minimal to no scarring. We're concerned that the intensity of the fire that took place may have caused some damage to your corneas. We believe that this is temporary, and your sight will be unaffected, but we've bandaged them up, just in case. A shard of metal had pierced through muscles in your leg, but once again, there has been no permanent damaged caused. Finally, you have a mild concussion, but after what you've been through, that's to be expected."

Most of this just flies over your head. The doctor could have just spoken in Gobbeldegook, as you haven't really understood a word, and to be quite frank, at this point, you really don't care.

"We'll keep you in here for some observations. If your recovery progresses well, I don't see why we need to keep you in here for more than four days."

There's silence for a few moments, only punctuated as the doctor draws a curtain around you. Without any noise, you think you've been left alone. Unable to see anything, the waves of panic course through your veins once again.

"She told me everything, Scott."

The voice startles you and your brain takes a few moments before it kicks into gear. Inside, you cringe, waiting for the verbal tongue lashing.

"Why didn't you tell me, Scott? I mean, I know it wasn't your place to say a word, but don't you think I would have liked something more than what you gave me? If you told me, I would have been able to deal with it. Maybe not in the beginning, but we still could have had something."

What did you give her as a reason to break up?

Oh, yes, something along the lines of a complicated matter that you didn't want her getting involved in. The irony of your current predicament hits you hard. If you had the inclination, or the energy, you would have laughed at the cards fate had cut you.

Why didn't you tell her the truth?

For you, the answer is simple enough. It's been a mantra, a constant reminder that you were doing what you thought was best for everyone associated with you.

_Because I care about you too much to willingly hurt you. _

_Because high school is hard enough without being subject to rumours that never really die._

_Because you have a smile, a special smile that's reserved for just me, and I never wanted to lose that smile. I didn't want to forget the way your fingers intertwined with mine when I held your hand. And damn, but you smell of vanilla and cinnamon pie – my favourite foods in the world. _

_Because I have memories of you that I didn't want you to take away from me. _

_Because I wanted you to have me with no attachments or conditions. The same way I wanted you without feeling guilty over my actions._

_Because in the month and a half that we did date, I think I started to fall in love with you. _

_No, scratch that. I know I did. _

Your brain scrambles to string these into a semi coherent sentence, and from drawing strength from energy reserves you didn't know you possessed, you prepare to blurt everything out.

You're out of time. The curtain has been drawn back with a swoosh – you can definitely hear this – and your family, bar John and Virgil and your father, clamour by the foot of your bed. Alan grabs onto one toe, regardless of the amount of pain it causes you. Stupidly, you squeeze your eyes shut against the pain, and then belatedly realise that no one can see your tears. They're hidden behind the eye bandages.

Your grandmother takes your other hand into hers. "Oh, Scotty, what have you done to yourself?"

Your ex-girlfriend leans down to your ear, ready to say goodbye now that your family is here. Her hair, vibrant red, tickles your face, and through the wrappings around your skin, you can smell the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. In an instant, you feel marginally better.

"I'll be back to visit you later, if you want me to."

_Yes! Please. You have no idea how badly I want to talk to you. _

"And, Scott," she whispers this softly into your ears. "If you're still interested, I'm still available."

And with those words, you wonder if you're really dead.

_If I am really dead, have I really gone to hell?_

It doesn't feel like it, if the endorphins that are flooding your body are anything to go by. If anything, her words could pick you up and float you all the way to heaven.

* * *

By your third day in hospital, you begin feeling restless. Eye examinations have determined that your eyes would be able to handle small amounts of dim light and have unwound the mummy wrapping from your eyes.

So far, all you can make out is the several shades of grey that seem to decorate the room, and the slightly darker outline of the visitors that have poured in by the bucket load to see you. Most of them are of the female variety – you are quite the ladies' man – but there are two girls you want to see, and they haven't been in to see you.

Girl number one is your ex-girlfriend. She hasn't come back to see you and there's so much you want to say to her. Hey, if you play your cards right, she could go from being an ex to being your proper girlfriend.

Girl number two is the one you've been helping out for the past seven months. At the very least, you want to make sure she – and the kid – are okay.

You sit there, idle, enjoying the stillness in the midst of a storm, just for a few moments.

The curtain moves, and girl number two is wheeled in.

"How are you?" you ask, manners kicking in. Your brain is feeling less lethargic than it did three days ago, and the fact that your painkiller strength has been reduced has only helped matters.

She shrugs, non-committal.

"The baby's dead," she adds, bluntly, emotionlessly.

You hold your tongue.

"I didn't want it anyway. I couldn't abort it, but I couldn't live with it either. The plan was to place it up for adoption with someone that could love it the way I wouldn't have been able to."

You hear the news, hear the way it's being told, and something inside of you breaks. You're not quite sure what it is, but you don't like it.

_It can't be my heart breaking, can it? I mean, the kid wasn't biologically mine, anyway._

Deep down, you know why. Even though there is no biological link to the dead baby and you, for the past seven months, you've played a charade in getting other people to believe that it was yours. The attachment, though not biological, had been formed.

"I'm glad it's over," she continues in the same monotone voice.

Once more, you hold your tongue, knowing it will never truly be over.

_In a town this small, with members who have good memories and hold long grudges, this will never be a dog that lies, let alone a sleeping dog that lies. _

She somehow manages to read your thoughts. "My cousin's invited me to live out west with her. I just want to go somewhere where none of this will be known. I'm saying yes, and I'm leaving as soon as I'm discharged."

You still hold your tongue, but only because words have failed you at this moment. You actually don't know what to say.

"Don't say anything," she smiles, bittersweet. "It may not have meant to end this way, but at least it's coming to an end, right?"

You nod, dumbfounded.

To your surprise, she leans over in her wheelchair and places a quick kiss on your cheek.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble I've given you over the past seven months."

You shrug it off.

"You have been an amazing tower of support for me, and I don't know how I would have coped without you."

_Tell me something I don't know._

"You're a good guy, Scott, and don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."

With those words, she wheels herself out of the room. You look at her as she wheels towards the lifts, knowing that this is the last time you'll see her.

* * *

Almost a week after the accident, you are finally discharged. The concussion has cleared itself up, your eyesight is nearly back to normal, and the gel has done its job. Your skin has regenerated and renewed itself faster and there is almost no scarring visible. The only flipside is that your leg is still too unstable to walk on, and you have to hobble around on a pair of crutches.

_Even so, I can't wait to get home._

Dad had told you that your car had been written off, and that it would have been cheaper to buy a new used-car than repair your old one. You pointed out a couple that tickled your fancy on the way home from the hospital.

The car pulls up into the driveway, and Dad hops out of the driver's seat, pulling your crutches out from the backseat and handing them to you. He nods at the red haired girl sitting on the porch as he hands you your designer walking sticks, looks at the expression that is plastered onto your face, and decides to give you a few moments alone together.

You hobble over to her, stand by her side, drink in her appearance. You press a quick, but tender, kiss on her lips.

"Yep," you pretend to consider, "I'm still interested."

She grins and pulls you in for another quick kiss. "I'm still available."

"Not anymore," you grin back.

She stares at you for a bit. "Tell me about it. I mean, I know how everything went down, but tell me your version."

She holds out her hand, an open invitation for you. You accept, lead her to the low brick wall on the far side of the farm house and hoist your body up onto the wall, despite the pain. She sits beside you, ready and waiting. You open your mouth and let the verbal waterfall begin.

As you talk, you notice your shadows lengthen, and then merge into one. You glance at her, and then down at your hands, clasped together with hers.

Perhaps, you muse to yourself, it's a sign of things to come.


End file.
